The longer version. Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET
Lost Child of War
Happy child, the world was yours,
swathed in love and happiness.
You wandered where the skylark soars,
your laughter born of gentleness.
Your heart was pure, your spirit free,
you sang to skies of endless blue.
You danced with butterflies in glee,
‘midst blooms that kissed the morning dew.
Through meadows bright and fragrant air,
you chased the sun, its golden flame.
Each day a dream, beyond despair,
a world untouched by sorrow’s name.
When winter came with gentle chill,
your mother’s arms became your keep.
Safe from the storm, you lingered still,
wrapped warm in love, you fell to sleep.
Then came a sound no soul foresaw,
a scream that split the morning sky.
The heavens cracked, the earth in awe,
as dreams were crushed and forced to die.
The world imploded—hearts were torn,
the light of love to darkness cast.
All innocence, once softly born,
was buried in the thunder’s blast.
The sky turned red, the ground grew wild,
her small hands reached for air, for grace.
The world she knew—a weeping child,
now smoke and ruin took its place.
She called for those she could not find,
her voice a thread in choking dust.
It echoed deafness, cold, unkind,
as walls collapsed and dreams were crushed.
Through shattered glass the daylight bled,
the silenced cries replaced her song.
The scent of fear, of fire, of dread—
the child of joy, where had she gone?
Her breath grew soft, her heartbeat slow,
the din of war began to fade.
A lullaby the ashes know,
sang low where innocence was laid.
Her gaze turned within, to depart,
as if she saw beyond the flame.
A whisper left her fragile heart—
one final sigh, one whispered name.
Above her stillness, wings grew weak,
the guardian wept through ashen air.
He tried to sing, yet could not speak,
to spare the grief no soul should bear.
Too young to know of rage or war,
she never learned what vengeance means.
Her heart was pure, untouched by gore,
unsullied by the wicked schemes.
He knew he could not mend her pain,
nor stitch the broken threads of light.
No prayer could breathe her life again,
no hand restore the vanished sight.
Beneath his fallen star he knelt,
his tears like rain on scorched remains.
He wept for all the pain she felt,
for shattered worlds and love’s lost chains.
The ones who brought such death to light
knew not her name, nor cared at all.
Their souls long severed from the right,
blind to the lives they’d see to fall.
He whispered prayers the winds would keep,
to guard her rest where angels roam,
and vowed through time, though heaven weep,
her soul would find its way back home.
Below, the world turned on, unaware,
the smoke still rose, the sirens cried.
No time to mourn, no pause, no prayer—
the living pressed, the lost denied.
The toys lay strewn, the garden scarred,
a doll’s face stained with ash and grime;
her laughter stilled, her memory marred,
forgotten soon by march of time.
